


And Away.

by punkwraith



Category: Overwatch (Video Game), overwatch
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:28:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22263388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punkwraith/pseuds/punkwraith
Summary: Dragons were the guardians of the earth, once. They helped her sing, helped her breathe. Kept her green.Now that they’re gone, all that’s left is their magic. Jack knows this. Or, he thought he did.
Relationships: R76 - Relationship, Reaper | Gabriel Reyes & Soldier: 76 | Jack Morrison, reaper / soldier 76
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24





	And Away.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! So I want to start out by saying my writing style is narrative heavy and some might find it a little boring. That’s ok! But otherwise, I promise the intro won’t dragon for much longer ;) There will be dialogue! My writing isn’t the best either but hey! I tried. 
> 
> find me on twitter @reaptight :)

Thousands of years ago, dragons ruled the earth in all of their gigantic glory. Blessed by the sun and welcomed by the earth, they were the very guardians that shaped her —- gave her life and gave her radiance. At least, that’s what his mother always told him. And he would listen. A childish thing to hold onto that kept him afloat - adrift away from the reality of things. Kept him from thinking lonely thoughts because — what if he could find one? Would it befriend him? The dragons had died out a long time ago, and it was humanity’s fault somehow. They powered the atmosphere with their magic. And when they left, so too the purest of magics. The world was left to ruin itself. His mother told him, with confidence, that she had once seen one as a child. It seemed small, a runt - maybe. No mere dragon could be about the size of a dog and yet she swears she had been blessed by it. 

All she had from that, was a lone purple scale. And with that scale, she had created something that had cured her grandfather of this terrible illness. Jack had scraped his knee while chasing tadpoles, once. Cried all the way home and buried his face in his mother’s shawl as the blood ran down his leg and ruined his clothes. She must have been brewing something. She smelled of mint, a hint of rose petals. The soft fabric of her dress now sullied with his tears and all he could do was babble “I didn’t mean to.” Too apologetic. Always trying to tuck himself into a small ball and wish himself away. She takes his face into her calloused hands. He can feel her rings, warmed by her skin, pressed right against his cheek. He wonders if the magic is hidden inside. Maybe she herself is a dragon…

 _She shushed him in his hysterics. Quelled his thoughts with lily-lipped laughter and bright eyes. “Darlin’, it’s just a dress. It’ll dry. Look at your knee— come, i’ve got some salve.”_ And she cured him that way. Cleansed his wound with the water from the creek and spread some of the salve over the ripe red wound. And that was it. After that, she colored his world with blooming promises and pages upon pages of magic he had only heard of in whispers. Every page, handwritten in some scribbled language his eyes could barely decipher.

The memory is vague in the absence of her presence and yet he still remembers her fiery red hair. Her warmth. Her genuine smile. It felt like damnation to lose whatever sliver of purity this world had left. Her death meant he would have to face this world alone. Watching her fade before his very eyes left him with nothing else. There would always be a part of her sewn into him. Her lullaby his voice, his resolve. 

He was never poetic when it came to loss. Watching an illness overcome his once strong mother was nothing like the books he read. There was no song to cry to. No open window to scream out of but surely, he had screamed more than once the moment she took her last breath. As if it would bring her back.

He filled his loneliness with the forest. Kept himself tucked away in their homely little cottage. It was the only way he could mourn in peace. Away from those who didn’t care. All they would miss was her magic- he knew this. People didn’t miss genuinely. Missing something always became two sided in this world. He would rather stay away from crocodile tears and keep what was real. Her stories. What books she left. What secrets, scrawled away in their rickety floorboards. 

If he held onto those stories long enough … if he could just will them into existence - maybe they would return. To claim what was taken from them, and possibly kill him too - but what good was he in a world that was never his? All that was left of their world was the magic they embedded into the earth. Their will. Their mythos. Everything humanity knew the dragons knew first. Perhaps its dragon magic that he wields now. Mother never did specify.

Jack runs the soft pads of his fingers against an old page. Brows furrowing while pieces together each letter and knits together an entire paragraph on the topic of necromancy. He’s met necromancers before. One in particular that left him with a feeling of rage. He barely remembers anything about her except her heterochromatic eyes. How a curse had taken the sight in one eye and how it supposedly allowed her to see past the veil of the living. He looks up. Clenches his jaw at the thought. “Playing god,” he rumbles aloud. Rouses his feline friend from her soft slumber with the way he slips from the old wooden stool. “Yeah. This ain’t for me.” 

The woman behind him seems agitated “I’m not asking you to bring a dead body back. I am asking you to speak with the dead. Is that so difficult?”

“I don’t mess with the underworld. Neither did my mother. Don’t know who told you otherwise, but sorry. I’m only running her business the way she wanted it to go. White magic **only.** Black magic nowadays needs dragon blessings anyway. Speak with that witch up north if you want to bring the damned into your home.”

He’s starving, despite his pride. This world didn’t seem to believe in their kind of magic anymore. Only something twisted and vile meant to hurt other people. He could hate the world, but he isn’t stupid enough to ignore the rule of threes. And money isn’t enough. Hunting squirrels got him by well enough.

“Alright. Then help my sick daughter yourself. Can you at least do that?” 

“Sure.” Saving her from the same illness that took his mother wouldn’t be easy. But it was in its first stage —- he had to try. 

—

He sent the woman on her way with a few herbal soups to hold her child over. Something infused with just the tiniest bit of magic to numb bodily ache and help her sweat out her fever. He would travel by nightfall to the creek down south and find some more ingredients that way. A base for the potion, at least, because he’s damn near signed himself up for something he might not even be able to complete.

Jack takes his time to leave though. Says goodbye to his blind ragdoll and kisses her head to let her know he won’t be around. “Keep the bed warm for me.” As if she could understand. She must have, for she has given him a loving bunt to the chin that makes him smile in only a matter of seconds. 

He closes the dreary curtains. Locks all the windows, makes sure every cabinet is shut well and every potion is neatly tucked away to make the home blind-cat-proof. He couldn’t trust her enough to be careful. He slips himself into his worn leather boots and tugs his hand-sewn shawl around himself to prepare his body for the night’s inevitable chill. Taking his satchel in hand, he counts his rations and leaves without a second thought. He tells himself it's for the best. That it won’t be long. That it’s for money … so he can feed himself. His cat. 

The darkness immediately consumes him the more he ventures forth. The crickets’ song envelops him and the fireflies become his guiding lanterns. He likes it here. It were as if the trees knew his name and whispered comforting things to him in his mother’s absence. All while he followed a path he knew by heart. Through weeping willows, ducking under rosebush and across small streams that became veins towards what he was looking for. A lush land, surrounded by promise. Verdant flora and chittering faunae that stilled at the very sight of his sleek silhouette. He breaths, calmly, into the cold air. 

His breath leaves him in a light fog. He doesn’t stop walking until the mud begins to squish firmly under his weight. When the soil’s soft, that is where he’ll begin to dig. On his hands and knees, he crawls about the muddy earth in search of nutrient-rich roots and bulbs he can cook and sap of their use. Takes the time to try and find mint or even make use of the weeds. Everything had a use. Everything.

—

The hours go by and he feels he has gathered enough to work with. His hands, cold and pruney, ache for warmth and so he takes it as a sign to rise from his crawling and he realizes he has cut a palm right open. “Out of all things, it’s the right hand.” It stings, and for a moment he swears he can feel the earth vibrating beneath his feet. He’s.. sweating? It must be a poisonous plant. Or toad venom. The world suddenly feels too small and he doesn't want to breathe.

What happens if he tries to move? What will his body do? He’s hallucinating and in the distance he can see the outline of a great beast —- filling his mind with a ghostly incantation that has his teeth aching and skin blistering (?) It’s… flying. Shimmering in the night under the bright moon yet suddenly the sun snaps into view and his entire body is forcibly pinned to the ground by a strong wind. It’s landing. This ferocious beast his body has conjured up in his unsightly death towers over the trees and shatters the silence with a deafening screech.

He’s a furnace — ignited kerosene. His body fragile glass and something inside him has become an amalgam of shapes and designs he can’t understand. Not like this. He can’t die to poison in a wound. “Why —- ?”

_You have peered past the veil._

The voice… a booming thing in his chest. A war drum.

“I’m sorry I didn’t...” Nothingness. Blissful. Beautiful. His body accepts something that is not death — but slumber? Something that renders him completely comatose. The last thing he can feel is cold teeth. Razor sharp and deadly, taking him up. 

And away.


End file.
